


All New X: Bobby and Warren - A Question of Lust

by Luke_8814



Category: All New X-Men (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: All New X-Men, Anal Fingering, Anal Masturbation, Angel Wings, Best Friends, Blond, Blonde, Blue Eyes, Boarding School, Bobby Drake - Freeform, Boxer Briefs, Boxer Shorts, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Love, Cardigans, First Orgasm, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gay Bobby Drake, Gay Male Character, Gym Sex, Gyms, High School, Horny Teenagers, Ice, Ice Play, Ice Powers, Ice fingering, Locker Room, M/M, Male Bonding, Male Friendship, Male Homosexuality, Male Protagonist, Male Solo, Marvel Universe, Masturbation, Masturbation in Bathroom, Men's Underwear, POV Male Character, Pre cum, Psychic Bond, Pubes, Pubic Hair, Roommates, Scent Kink, Scents & Smells, Sexual Fantasy, Showers, Snow, Snow and Ice, Spying, Sweaters, Team Dynamics, Teen Angst, Teen Crush, Teen Romance, Teen Years, Towels, Underage Masturbation, Underwear, Underwear Kink, Underwear Sniffing, Voyeurism, Warren Worthington III - Freeform, Wings, Winter Olympics, X-Men Inspired, X-Men References, angel - Freeform, balls, bird smells, blond guys, bonde guys, bonde pubic hair, briefs, circumcised penis, dream - Freeform, feathers - Freeform, ice orgasm, iceman - Freeform, jerking off, scrotum, smooth chest, teen, testicles, up towel, urinals, yellow eyebrows, yellow hair, yellow pubes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24987991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luke_8814/pseuds/Luke_8814
Summary: Young All New Bobby and Warren are roommates while they're stuck in the future. Little Bobby is newly out and he expounds on his early sexuality and comments on his present via his inner monologue as he's starting to realize that maybe he has feelings for Warren, possibly. It's all a jumble of hormones and emotions and time displacement stress. Bobby is 15, Warren is 17.This takes place not long after Uncanny #600
Relationships: Bobby Drake/Warren Worthington III
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Roommates

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Changing Room](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/640549) by GSC. 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Bobby sees Little Warren naked for the first time. Little Warren is hungover from the night before.
> 
> <[](https://ibb.co/GHZRYtq)" />  
> *artwork is original

* * *

Robert "Bobby" Drake - 15

I was 12 ½ when I jerked off for the first time. Sexual maturity began, for me at least, frustratingly slow and I still looked like I was 9. I’d been getting boners for a while and I’d finally started to grow some pubes but you can’t, as I found out, tell strangers that when they get your age wrong by a few years. Playing with my frequently engorged schlong had become my secret favorite pastime and top hours were after school before my mom came home. That’s when it happened. One day I was yanking it like a lawnmower-pull when I felt a surging feeling coming from my balls working its way up my boner. My dick head was pinched in-between my thumb and my forefinger and I fully expected to ride out the escalating throb but then I had an ‘ _Oh-S.h.i.t…!_ ’' moment. It was rapidly dawning on me that this was something I didn’t have control over. My dick was turning into a volcano and eruption was imminent. I held on to it with a death grip like it was going to come flying off as clear fluid ran out its tip and everything began to spin. It twitched like it was possessed and I felt a contraction under my balls and white fluid sprayed out and splattered the wall in front of me. Another contraction hit and more cum shot out in force. The feeling and intensity of all this took my breath away and I had to grab onto my bed. My body wasn’t done yet as the force behind my sack that was causing this now began to pulsate in rhythm and even more jizz escaped from my penis. Now it was flowing out under low pressure and going everywhere. I wanted it to stop, but, at the same time, I wanted it to continue because it felt so good. Finally, there was another contraction that almost hurt and it forced a final good dribble out. I collapsed back, partly in panic, partly in relief that it was over, but mostly just laid out by what I would discover was my first orgasm. I assumed I’d either broken something in there or discovered a new previously unknown miracle of the human body. Then I did a quick internet search and basically had the sex talk with Google that my parents had been neglecting. I also discovered pornography, but that’s another story.

That was 3 years ago now and I’m honestly not sure if a day’s gone by since that I haven’t jerked off. Apparently mutating during puberty fast-tracks a guy’s sexual maturity because even though my face now looks 13, still years behind, my body certainly doesn’t look like a little boy’s anymore. The hair came first, a real bush and under my armpits; a tiny amount has started to grow, a few months ago, beyond my crotch and up towards my stomach. In the last year I’ve even started to get some patchy areas on my chin and I’ve begun shaving, but only like once a month, and sometimes less. My voice dropped a few octaves, and I grew 5 inches. I started to fill out in my figure. I’m still too little, I think, but since I was recruited to the team, and taught how to actually workout right, I’ve put on some serious muscle. My hands and feet have also gotten a lot bigger, not like Hank bigger, but normal and manly like. Then there’s my dick and my balls; both have gotten bigger too. Not as big as I’d like, but way bigger than back then. I’m 6 inches when I’m hard – Yes, I measure. I also know that 6 inches is perfectly average, but who the F wants to be just ‘average?’ especially when you know that you’re basically growing up to be a badass superhero! I know this because I’m actually living in my future right now as the present. It’s a total mind-fuck, I know. The grownup version of me is here and he’s kinda more dork-ass than badass, but he cool. He’s sorta become like a brother but not really, but still kinda. Sometimes we have stupid fun together and it’s like he’s my best friend, but then other times it’s like we’re just ‘us’ and we’re in lockstep and we actually are the same person. Other times I can’t stand him and he’s just so unbelievably dorky and irritating. It’s all very complicated and we’re working through some stuff.

He’s gay too. We’re gay, I guess I should clarify; or is it just ‘I’m’ gay, since we’re the same person? For some reason, being here in the future changed things for me and after Jean pulled it out it just wasn’t going back in. That didn’t happen for him. His Jean is dead but I think she must have always known since mine did; she just never ever said it out loud. I wonder, sometimes, why that was. Everybody says something happened and she got really powerful, like crazy-town powerful; then ‘stuff went down,’ so maybe she just didn’t get around to saying it. Funny thing, phrase ‘and then stuff went down’ should be at the end of every sentence involving the X-Men: went to a party – ‘and then stuff went down,’ Went out shopping – ‘and then stuff went down,’ family came to visit – ‘and then stuff went down,’ Stepped outside – ‘and then stuff went down.’ Speaking of crazy-powerful, I’m real potent apparently. He, Old-Me, says so but that didn’t really ever start trying to level up until a few years ago… ‘stuff had gone down’… and he had to dig deep to heal himself. Now he can do all kinds of insane stuff and when he’s ice he’s not even human anymore but says he won’t show me everything because, I suspect, he thinks it will freak me out. My powers have gotten a lot better since we came here and he’s actually taught me a lot of control. I’m pretty comfortable with where my level is right now. I still flare up too cold sometimes so I don’t think I want them to grow anymore till I’m older and ready; so I’m not anywhere near his level yet. He’s probably right that seeing some of his ‘executive level’ stuff might freak me out. I have a tendency to get lost in my own head sometimes.

He’s like 30. I did the math and I even tried to finagle presents for all the birthdays I’ve missed but no one would bite. I had a long talk with him about how since we’re the same person, I’m technically over 21 here he should let me have alcohol but he wasn’t having that, and now he mocks me about it. I’ve subscribed to porn sites using his social security number to get even though. For 30 something, he looks like he’s way younger, just like I do, so I guess I’ll never shake that. People say it’s the effects of the ice. I’ve seen him shirtless, not creping or anything like that I swear, and he’s pretty jacked, compared to me, which is cool. Still no chest hair though, which is disappointing; same with the facial hair. I didn’t ask but I can tell it just doesn’t grow, and since we’re on the subject of growing and body changes there’s downstairs to consider. We’re going back to that because this is my train of thought. My body looks good now for 15 but, as mentioned, the D could be bigger, not gay porn bigger just maybe like another inch. I haven’t asked him when, or if, we get bigger because that’s pretty much the same question as “how big is your dick.” That would be weird, wouldn’t it? Weird, yes; but _Toooo weird_? Mabey if I just handed him a questionnaire and was like “Hank needs to know for a boring science project he’s doing.” “Everybody has to give this to their counterpart.” “It isn’t weird or anything.” “It’s not like I want to know…” We peed at the same urinals one time, together without a divider; etiquette was broken. He said he really had to go, and Mr. Wolverine was in the only stall. He joked “don’t like at our dick,” when he was unzipping and I was mortified. I couldn’t even go and I just looked straight ahead even after he’d finished. Then, as I was still trying to go, Mr. Wolverine comes out and is drying his hands and says “you guys compare?” before he walks out and I almost melted myself. I had to avoid Old-Me for a week after that.

Old-Me has a whole apartment here at the school but it’s a NYC apartment, so it’s basically a single room. He went to UCLA and lived there, but he says besides that he’s pretty much always crashed at X housing. We’re in the dorms here, Scott, Jean, Hank and me and Warren. As dorm rooms go, apparently we got the best ones. Ours, I’m not sure how we got them. Maybe Scott got all serious and thought about it for way too long and then barged into some serious meeting and demanded we get better rooms. Its possible Jean made them do it… but hopefully not. They could have just wanted to give Warren the biggest one for his wingspace and to make up for his not wanting to be here; then decided they couldn’t just give the best to him so all went in them. In the student housing tower, Angel’s and mine is the largest on our floor. It’s a corner room that’s L-shaped room with two twin beds on either end of the long side. There are twin built-in wardrobes on both sides that match the wood floors and we have our own bathroom so we don’t have to use the one down the hall. Two desks were meant to fill the short side of the L, but Warren moved one out and said that the short end is on his side of the room and now he calls it his ‘sitting area.’

" />

Bobby and Warren's Dorm

Warren and I have shared a room before, briefly when the mansion was damaged but nothing this close-quartered or long-term. This hasn’t been a problem tough. He says that he basically grew up at boarding schools so he can live wherever. I know that isn’t true. He’s really very territorial, like an aggressive bird, hence the ‘sitting area’ thing, and he also really values his privacy and can be a little secretive. He knows I respect that more than Scott or Hank would even though he’d never admit it. I, on the other hand, can actually live with anyone and long as they don’t nag me to clean, or put away clothes, or not eat in bed, which Warren never does so long as it all stays on kept to side. We know each other’s likes and dislikes better than the other guys do, and we can both put up with one another’s weird behaviors and annoying oddities. He’s moody and quick to brood he he’ll do the whole silent treatment sometimes. I get upset a lot and sometimes have small fits of irritation and unpleasantness that some people, Jean and Scott and Hank and Kitty Pryde, rudely refer to as ‘tantrums.” Sometimes I make the room cold and occasionally, not often, but sometimes, I’ll ice it up while I’m sleeping. We covered that I’m messy, and how I don’t do laundry and how I eat in bed, but I also use my roommate’s, in this case Warren’s, but I’m going to say ‘roommate’s’ Ipad to watch porn and deny it when asked.

Warren goes to bed early and can’t sleep with any type of light being on no matter how small it is because of his weird bird-body. He says his eyes won’t adjust in darkness if they see any light at all. He says that sleep, for birds, involves periods of repeated eye opening and closure, like little blinks and peeks, and apparently he’ll do the same thing during sleep if it isn’t dark enough. He actually has a lot of weird little peculiarities. He likes everything around him to be neat and he’ll get all flustered if there’s any clutter or his things are out of place. He pretends it’s because he’s OCD, but in reality it’s actually the bird thing again. His eyes move around and focus independently of each other and are super vigilant. They see everything, and especially zoom on stuff that’s super small. I guess they’re wired to spot predators, and seeds… If there’s junk lying about or if things aren’t in their place he’ll notice and it literally drives him crazy. We also can’t have shiny things in the room because he’ll ‘bird-out’ on them and get lost in the shimmer.* I’ve seriously caught him in the room holding up his keys to the light and just staring at them. He also has these little mini-molts fairly frequently where he’ll drop down feathers and leave small piles and little trails of them wherever he goes or sits. He’s super self-conscious and embarrassed by this so we don’t talk about it; I pretend like I’m too lazy to notice and he tries to clean them up when I’m not looking. He also has this oil gland thing in his back between his wings that keeps them soft and waterproof and sometimes it will leave stains on his sheets and pillows.* There’s a permanent mark on his chair in the ‘sitting area’ from it. We don’t talk about that either. Also, he spends a lot of time in the bathroom grooming and fussing around with his feathers which he says it’s normal. He tries to clean up after himself but I always find random feathers in there, and not just little ones either. I guess it goes without saying that he has body issues and I think he called himself Angel to intentionally disassociate from the whole bird-man issue.

All that bird stuff, plus the moodiness and secrecy, sounds kinda bad when you put it all out there like that but he’s actually a really good guy to live with. Our class schedules are almost the same though mine allow me to sleep in an extra hour that he’s around for. We actually spend more time together in training than we do in the dorm at the same time. When we are in there together, it’s truly not bad. I don’t make jokes or pester him or play pranks like when we’re all together. He broods less, and he drops entirely the arrogance act that he can put on sometimes. He’s still real upset about being here, but he doesn’t complain or gripe about it to me at home like he does in public. I also don’t think anybody else knows about all the bird stuff, and I’d never say anything and he knows that. We kinda have a connection when it comes to stuff like that. I mentioned that I tend to make the place cold and he has such weird physiology that his sensitivity to sudden temperature changes is next to zero and he has a much different tolerance for low temperatures than normal people. It’s not uncomfortable for him at all to be half-undressed in 35 degree weather even though he has more clothes and shoes than Jean does.

For a guy who’s isn’t ever under-dressed for any anything, he’s oddly indifferent in his private wardrobe choices. It’s usually just the same a few gym shorts and a pair of expensive pajama pants. He never wears a shirt; and honestly I complain about that and sometimes look forward to coming home to see it. His dislike for shirts is twofold, I think, and both are fairly understandable. First, he looks amazing topless and I’d have no problem admitting that out loud even if I was still in the closet. He doesn’t really have to work out because of his bizarre metabolism, another bird thing, and the mutated muscles in his back that let him fly pull on the normal muscles in the front so that his pecs and the rest are just naturally huge and pop like they do all on their own. Lucky bastard! The other isn’t so lucky. It actually takes him a really long time to get properly into-and-out-of most shirts and jackets because of the wings. He takes forever-and-a-half to get dressed even though all his good clothes are customized to fit around and have openings for them. He acts like it’s a prep school habit that he can’t drop or pretends it’s just him being a vain diva-like pretty boy. It’s not. Seeing him dress is rough and even though his close are altered to fit, they still have to go on first and getting all those little buttons and zippers done up can be really difficult for him since it’s hard to reach back there. I’ve never said it, and I don’t think it either because of the telepaths, but it’s almost like a handicap for him. He’d be super pissed and real hurt if he ever found out I think that. 

If he’s not wearing his favorite shorts or his comfy pants then it’s no pants, just Boxers; boxer-shorts, not boxer brief ‘boxers,’ or trunks or anything like that. It’s like old-school 90’s boxer-shorts boxers, old man boxer-shorts, although there’s nothing about seeing him in just them that would make a person think ‘old man.’ Scott wears them too, but it’s not the same thing, plus I’m not rooming with him. Warren says they’re ‘comfortable,’ but what he really means is ‘they let my dick swing around like I’m pretending to be an elephant.’ I’m not complaining but a lot of times, especially early mornings when he stumbles out of bed for a leak, it’s like Dumbo is on parade. He acts like “nothing to see here’ but he knows he’s well endowed, and I know that he knows that I know that he knows that he is. Then there are the times when he’s being weird about his wings, like he gets sometimes – remember he’s moody, and sits facing me to keep them at back. He might as well be holding a sign that says ‘Look at my balls!’ while blowing an air-horn. Despite all this I’ve never seen him naked, or even had a peek at it accidentally or ‘otherwise.’ Then it happened.

" />

2 days ago was Saturday. Normally during the week he gets up and out way before I do but on Saturdays we usually both sleep in, especially since nobody here seems to like to train on Saturdays, which is just fine with me. Ordinarily, Warren will get up first and head into the bathroom, swinging like a pachyderm and shower before I even come to. Friday night he’d actually come in much later than normal, and Saturday he slept way late. When I woke up, and was just lying there dozing in and out under a myriad covers, I tend to bury myself under layers of them when I’m not alone to insulate against my chill during the night, and I heard his feathers ruffle as he moved around in bed. I slowly opened my eyes and started to peek from the sheets but the bright morning light flashed in and I retreated back into the darkness under the covers. In time I drifted back to sleep again but after an unknown time, I faded back in to the sound of more ruffling feathers. I opened my eyes again and peek beyond the covers and this time let them focus in the sunlight. I could plainly see Warren slouched asleep at the corner of his bed with one foot dangling off the edge and he looked half dead. His other leg was bent at the knee and under him. He was lying in a strange position, sort of lounging on, and supported by, his wings while also being partially snuggled up inside one of them. It was a weird position that I knew he would never normally get into, let alone fall asleep in.

We’ve covered the whole light situation – now adding to his list of peculiarities, he only sleeps in 2 positions. A: Lying on his back with his wings spread so he’s not laying on them and with the edges curled onto his arms and the secondary and primary feathers pulled neatly next to his legs. B: Laying on his stomach with them closed and tightly folded behind lying flat on his back and the big feathers running down his legs. This pose was neither of those. It was one of those postures that only a really drunk person would get themselves into and could never even imagine doing so while sober. It was combination yoga pose and torture position, and I knew he was going to be sore from it. He started to rouse and reached his arms backwards slightly then settled back still again propped in this stupefied pose. I pictured him laying an egg and then nesting on it like this. I made a mental note to tease him without mercy about this at a later date and my hand slithered out from my bed linen fortress and reached for my phone. I had grand plans to memorialize this moment, when he stirred again and yawned and I instinctively jerked my hand back to safety under the covers.  
  
I scanned the horizon again, this time lowering the sheet past my nose and a sitting up a bit. The room was bright with sun. Both of the window shades were opened. Warren was near naked; on display wearing a pair of short cotton oxford-blue and white gingham checkered boxers with a large white flat-fronted waistband that had a solid blue rectangle stitched in right over the fly. Above this rectangle, coming directly out from under the boxers, was a happy trail of yellow hair running up his lower stomach to his navel. Now, as far as I knew, all the hairs on his body were the same shade of pineapple-blonde as those on his head and his eyebrows. This was confirmation of that fact; indeed all his body hair was pineapple-blonde. His arms were raised in this post- bacchanal, semi-angelic yet slightly pornographic, pose and he was displaying matching armpit hairs. Normally the rest of his bodily hairs were so light that they were basically invisible under most light. This morning however, the beams of light were hitting him just right so that each tiny yellow hair captured the rays and shimmered with a golden luster in the morning sun. I could see all of them lightly running across his lower arms, on his thighs, and down his legs and I experienced a totally unexpected surge in my underwear that gave me a firm erection. It was as though heaven itself had opened up and sent this vision of my own smutty over eroticized gay angel; St. Warren III, patron saint of lazy horny sunrises and morning wood. This was pretty much my closest friend, and while I’d always thought he was objectively hot, and non-so-guiltily enjoyed his eye candy, I’d never been actually attracted to him. This morning it was different, and for the first time I was genuinely and deeply aroused by looking at him. Under my mountain of covers, my hand pawed at the erection that had built in my boxer briefs. I was about to say 3 Hail-Warrens and take myself to church when he let out a hoarse throated cough and then slumped and partial rolled over, freeing a wing which stretched itself out across the bed with its feather tips hanging off one side like it was just another sleepy appendage, which I suppose it was.

The roll had raised the circus tent on the ‘elephant’ in the room, and I could see he had prominent and more noticeable than normal morning wood. It wasn’t an erection but it was about 30 degrees too angled to be rated PG-13 and it certainly wasn’t soft by any means. It was pointing up and slightly off center and was pressed against his leg stretching the fabric of his underwear and distressing the snugly buttoned fly as it yearned to escape imprisonment beneath the thin cotton of the shorts. He was obviously awake by now but continued to lay there stupefied for a couple of minutes before he opened his eyes and stretched again, this time arching his back. He rubbed his eyes with clenched fists and extending both arms high into the air, while pulling his feet and knees up before bringing his arms back down and resting his hands on his kneecaps. This action had twin results. The stretch caused his abdomen to extend and his happy trail to spring with it pulling far longer and curly hairs of the same color up out of his shorts and above the white waistband. The leg contraction caused his turgid cock to fall down between his legs and bounce into the ballooning opening of in his underwear. In that moment his fully thickened, but not yet hard, penis flopped out from the leg of his boxers and I glimpsed it fully on display as time slowed and the opening from 2001 played in my head. It was long, much longer than mine, and thick; circumcised with a big over-sized round helmet. My jaw dropped wide open and my mouth watered. My brown eyes zoomed in and I almost released by load.

* * *

I slip into a dreamscape, my hand on the rod in my crotch:

St. Warren III and I are seated next to one another in heaven while ‘Put it in my Mouth’ plays in the background.

This isn't Catholic heaven.

It's gay heaven and we aren't seated on chairs but naked men.

Glitter that's the same color as Warren's hair floats in the air.

Warren is shirtless as usual. He turns to me:

_“Would you like to touch my big dick?”_

It springs magically out of his sparkly short shorts:

_“Only if you insist”_

I reply back polity: 

_"Enjoy playing with it!"_

Warren says:

_"I will !!"_

I reply giddily:

_“This is for all the birthdays you’ve missed!”_

Another Warren standing next to me says.

He holds out a cake with his dick on it:

_“I love your facial hair!”_

Original Warren says as he holds his dick out for me to admire:

\- I have a large mustache and sideburns in gay heaven.

_“Please make sure your hand isn’t too warm on my dick!”_

Original Warren says:

_“I like it cold!”_

He says:

_“You’re very handsome and just as hot as I am,”_

He adds:

_“And you don’t look too young at all”_

He whispers into my ear:

\- I look older and am 4 inches taller in gay heaven.

...

Original Warren's dick is in my mouth now.

Other Warren’s dick is slapping me in the face:

_“Bobby… you’re soooo cold!”_

Original Warren whos dick I'm sucking says:

_“Make it colder...” !!! “Colder Bobby!”_

Both Warrens are saying:

...

\- Old-Me is there here now.

\- He's filming us with one of those ancient old camcorders:

_“Make it colder!”_

Other Warren keeps saying:

_“Pull my feathers!”_

Original Warren is demanding:

...

A third Warren is kneeling between my legs.

He's pulling at the button fastening my shorts:

“ _Blow your cold snow on my face!”_

Third Warren says:

...

\- Old-Me has a frighteningly huge boner poking up through his sorts now.

...

He touches it and he starts to ice up.

...

\- The fantasy starts to take a disturbingly weird and unspeakably dirty turn... 

* * *

Meanwhile, real world Warren was muttering:

“Too much sun!” … “Too much sun!” … “Fuck!”

I came back, little light headed, and with an enormous wet spot in my boxer briefs. He’d gotten out of bed and was fumbling with the shades. He’s already pulled the one over his bed and was apparently struggling with the one in the ‘sitting area.’ I heard a muffled, “mother fucker!” before he got it and shadow fell. He emerged from the ‘sitting area’ and walked around the bed. His wings trailed behind him; all feathers ruffled and out of place. The left wing looked heavy and was held low. The right one was raised a little higher and was partially extended so that the primary feather tips were trailing the wall as if giving him balance, the same way a normal person would do with their hand. I wondered, for the first time, how much he’d actually drank last night. He came to his wardrobe against the near wall and put his left hand up to its face. He leaned heavily inward as though the effort expended with the window shade had drained what little strength he had and that remaining upright and not collapsing back onto the darkened bed was taxing his last reserve. He had a secret textbook on avian biology and anatomy that he tried to keep hidden on his little book shelf in the ‘sitting area’ that I’d snooped through. He’d made various little scribbles and notes on some of the wing diagrams and I’d read that part and knew the proper names for his parts. His Patagiums, the long and heavily-muscled short-feathered limbs that grew from the back of his shoulders, and formed the upper boundary of his under-wing covert feathers, were low and tired and looked sore. Ordinarily they stood above his head when he was upright. The wrists at their ends which bent down and supported his long secondary flight feathers and his enormous primaries were unusually limp and his big feather tips and edges swept the floor.

After about a minute, he appeared to rally and he opened the wardrobe and began rustling through some drawers. His shorts were stuck in the crack of his ass. He must have assumed I was either asleep of gone entirely, as piled up sheets entirely covered my bed. He popped a minor handful of pills and swallowed dry. Wings still limp, he pulled out a linen-white towel and a fresh pair of underwear that were moss-green and solid, with little Tuscan-gold fleur de lis all over. Mechanically, he proceeded to drop the boxers he was wearing around his ankles. He grabbed his now free dick with his right hand and tugged on it a few seconds before scratching his balls. I fought the urge to sit up straight in bed just gawk since he was now standing mere yards away completely naked; his fat cock at full length and girth. He was in profile and I had a clear view of everything and I can say with certainty that the David statue looks short, chubby, homely, and micro-dicked compared to strapping young Mr. Worthington III. The sun-rays that got through now shaded windows partially illuminated his big round ass where it peeked out between his wings and I could see the tiny forest of sun colored hairs shimmering up and down his butt crack. His dick was about 7 inches long and the skin where his foreskin used to be was crumpled up into a small thin wrinkly sleeve just beyond the base of his head. The whole shaft descended out of a thick bush of curly lemon-yellow hair. I was shocked equally by the truths that he wasn’t a manscaped, and that he simply had so much pubic hair. Warren was a guy who’s look was so put together and screamed, in an inside-voiced, old-moneyed, well-mannered yet pompous, and properly enunciated way, _‘I’m well bred, well-groomed and a future one-per-center.’_ It seemed somehow deeply out of character for his pubes not to be groomed and I was genuinely concerned that he might not be taking care of himself here in our future being so unhappy. He tugged on himself a couple more times automatically before opening the towel to wrap around his waist; his wings elevated as he pulled it around his backside. Then he turned around and walked towards the bathroom and I could see a nice lump where his heavy cock was buried under the towel.

I was left breathing heavy and flustered still mostly buried inside my bunker of bed sheets. The images of his naked body, his ass, his blonde pubes, and his heavy cock were all soldered into my mind. I resisted the urge to masturbate for a full 30 minutes as my dick slowly deflated until he came back out from our shared bathroom. He was damp and looked awake and more refreshed. His wings were more solid and more erect and the feathers were noticeably back in place and smoothed. He strode across the room wearing his damp towel low on his hips revealing yet more curly lemon-yellow nether hair. He stopped at his wardrobe where he removed it and began drying his wet bicycle-yellow hair. His dick, no longer wood, jiggled with his body movements. I pondered weather might have jerk it in the shower, I’d never actually thought about him jerking off before, and decided that given his rough shape he probably hadn’t. I examined his softie; it wasn’t much bigger than mine, in length or girth. I’m a shower. His head was a lot smaller than it had been when he was swinging chubbed and weighty, and it was much less round and pointier than mine. His balls looked good. They tighter and rounder now, significantly bigger than mine, but they made his limp dick look relatively small in comparison. Covertly peering at my close friends’ genitals had caused the boner I’d just lost to roar back to life. Still oblivious to my state of wake, he wriggled painfully slowly into a pinot noir-hued straight-hemmed pique-knit 3 button spread-collar pullover, which had been tailored to fit his wings and had velcro and micro-snap buttoned openings for them. Then while standing, he pulled on the moss-green fleur de lis decorated boxer shorts he’d picked out. He was about to move on to his hair, and he was looking into the mirror fixed to the back of his wardrobe door, when I saw his left eye shift and move; bird eyes had spotted possible predator. A sharp cobalt-blue eye rotated 90 degrees in socket and stared at me; the head face that housed it unmoving. Another blue cobalt cast eye watch my reflection in the glass. “How long have you been there?” Warren’s voice echoed. “Just woke up,” I said, lying. “Oh,” he said. “I was a mess.” “Are you ok?” I asked, and he assumed I was talking about the hangover. “Yeah,” he said, “will be with some greasy breakfast in me.” I wasn’t talking about the hangover.

He carried on, combing then fixing his blonde hair and spritzing his big Adam’s apple with cologne. He stepped into a pair of indigo-colored midrise straight-fit tapered-leg jeans, and eggshell already tied Stan Smiths without socks. He gave himself 2 more hits of cologne, because he likes to bathe in it, then grabbed and put on his Clubmaster sunglasses. He stepped back, spread his wings a little and ruffled his feathers. They all stood up individually and fluffed, making the familiar noise, before neatly returning to place looking even more streamlined than before. He put slipped his slender leather cross grained wallet into his rear left pocket and dipped his keys into the front, reached for his backpack on the floor next to the base of his bed, and was out the door leaving me once again on my own.

By now I was horny beyond belief and my dick was so hard that it hurt. I felt like I’d just stepped off a roller-coaster. My penis had, in fact, been up and down so many times that dried pre cum was stuck all over the front of my boxer briefs and my tip was glued to the fabric. I pushed off all the covers onto the messy floor. I had all intentions of getting up until a wave of slothfulness hit me and I sunk back down staring at the rigid tent pole in my crispy y-front fly crotch. A normal person might have pulled the soiled underwear from his dick and jerked off like a man, but I just lazily rolled over and plowed my stiff cock into the mattress like a missile reentering the atmosphere. I violated it missionary style while I buried my face in my pillow and imagined it was my friends’ golden fuzzed ass. I humped and humped until I dumped one of the biggest loads of cum I’d ever made right inside of my underwear pouch. It was titanic and had the hot consistency of thick custard. I felt simultaneously indecent and sexually gratified as I basked warm and flushed, high on the lingering aftershocks of my orgasm. Revolted by my cummy and filthy afterglow yet still incredibly aroused, I lay prone feeling the protein rich sogginess in my boxer briefs congeal around my still hard dick. My head lay cheek downward on the pillow, lips parted drooling a little, as I gaped to my right with a goofy and semi-retarded looking post-ejaculatory facial expression.

Then the door swung open and Warren hurriedly re-entered, our sight lines colliding. I was body down in rifle fire position; mostly naked except for the well-placed tiny and immoderately short seafoam-green boxer briefs that clung intimately tight across my butt and slung low, with a wide flat cream-colored band that lowly bounded my waist and accentuated my exposed hairless ass crack. I looked like I was waiting to be butt raped, posed like some sort of slightly pornographic and underage pinup model. Warren looked at me like he’d just opened the door on something deplorably obscene and tried valiantly not to express facially what was running through his head.

_“Oh God why didn’t I knock!”_

“Sorry, forgot my phone!” he blurted out, and dashed across the floor to retrieve it fraught to get out of the room. Located, he stuffed it into his right back pocket and turned to beat an exit out the still open door when he paused. He snorted and his face grimaced in reaction to something unseen and a little shiver ran up his wings as they made the all too familiar ruffling sound. I was very familiar with his wing quakes and could tell that this had been an involuntary one. The nerve endings in his wings were far more sensitive than he would let on and they sometimes had their own organic reactions to unexpected stimuli when the feathers would stand up on end then lie back making that noise. In this case he’d just smelled something sickly sweet. I knew what it was and could even could smell it myself as I lay body-planted to the bed, my underwear filled with coagulating semen. Pitifully, my eyes tracked back over my shoulder and broadcast a silent plea for him to ignore it and leave. He met my gaze and I could see that he immediately regretted it yet couldn’t avert and we both stared eyes to eyes like we were witnessing some horrible slow-motion catastrophe. His big blonde eyebrows rose and the flesh between them furrowed, as the poor guy desperately tried to maintain his facial composure, but the stare wouldn’t break and the words he was thinking flashed across his face like they were glowing in neon:

_“Jesus, it smells like cum in here!”_

I was absolutely mortified and closed my eyes as he breezed past holding his breath and trying badly not to look at my airborne ass. The thought, no doubt, running though his mind of me grinding and seizing in orgasm as my fragrant batter spewed forth.

What followed were several painfully uncomfortable days.

" />

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story Concepts pulled from other stories here that aren't cannon I found intriguing:  
> "Burnished" by Diamondgore, https://archiveofourown.org/users/diamondgore/pseuds/diamondgore  
> "Angel : First Flight" by Kintsukuroi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kintsukuroi/pseuds/Kintsukuroi


	2. In the Kids Locker Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Bobby sees Little Warren's parts again.
> 
> Young All New Bobby continues to explore his thoughts about his roommate and good friend Warren. He further describes elements of his stay in his future via his inner monologue about his lust watching young Warren change after gym and he has another little fantasy. His thoughts about his friend are becoming increasingly sexual and he plays with his butt for the first time. It's still all a jumble of hormones and emotions and time displacement stress. Bobby is 15, Warren is 17.
> 
> This takes place not long after Uncanny #600

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " />

* * *

Robert "Bobby" Drake - 15

The school’s principle gymnasium was a moderate distance from our dorm and it was located in the ‘Athletic Performance Fitness and Wellness Center,’ which was adjacent to the central Services Center Building. Both buildings were connected by an arrow-straight open-air breezeway at ground level and by a subterranean passageway that took an odd meandering Z shaped path under the ground. The gym’s floor was sunken into the level-1 sub-basement which meant that the ground was 2 stories higher and could be seen through a double row of horizontal ventilation windows. All boundary the walls extended an astounding 6 stories above ground-level rendering the entire gym complex 8 stories high. The interior space was vast and cavernously empty. Strictly speaking, the gym was all baseline and was not designed for combat practice or superhuman exercises. It was neither seismically stabilized, hurricane-force tempered, fire and/or extreme temperature rated, nor was it energy discharge retardant. It was however, well suited and purpose designed for meta-human workouts such as feats of agility and high level aerial acrobatics, climbing and balances, upright sprinting, kinetic movements, and of course, inside and enclosed flying.

When we wasn’t team training and he wasn’t running through aeronautical combat drills, Warren could most often be found in this gym. In his frustration about our current situation, he would tirelessly practice non wind-assisted ascents, tightly controlled dives, restricted and tight winged maneuvering, micro-velocity speed bursts, and sharp-angle turns and swift arrestments. He also enthusiastically worked on hard-touchdown stooped ‘superhero landings,’ which weren’t necessary for combat or airborne rescues but just looked cool. Much of the gym’s floor area was capable of multi-adaptable three-dimensioned surface area rendering, meaning it could be set to build, modulate, and mould itself into variable terrains and obstacle courses in a non-holographic way. This was similar to how our DangerRoom worked, but only on a flat and horizontal plane as opposed to 6. Usually the place would be overflowing with kids showing off new skills and stunts, engaging in friendly and not so friendly competitions, looking at the opposite sex, and just hanging out. Classes were also held in there. After 8 on weeknights and 10 on weekends, the facility was closed to students, but the 5 of us were allowed to enter whenever we wanted. Our X-badges had been clearance coded to unlock all the features and the doors. Everyone, except Scott, got a big kick out of making a showy entrance and warming up just as the PA was telling everyone else that student hours were over.

The gym was equipped with full service facilities and to the left of the glass double entry doors, there were single sex restrooms with adjoining athletic lockers and showers. The guy’s, at least, was retro inspired and had wire-caged suspended pendent lights that give off a bright soft-yellow glow. The floors were completely covered with old looking 4”x4” fawn-colored tiles set in wide line taupe-shaded grout and had smoke-blue pewter-gray perimeter bands laid in. The walls were lined with ceiling height 6”x6” sand-colored tiles that were non-spaced. The sloped open shower basin was laid in small 1”x1” silver-mist grey tiles that were roughly set. This male only area was accessed via an airport or train station type entry, with a wide zig-zag passage with no door. Once through the pass and standing in the vestibule, the sinks, toilets and urinals were in a separated zone that was entered forward with two sharp 90 degree angles; a hard right then an immediate hard left. This zone was rectangularly shaped. Two oversized 60 inch enameled cast-iron trough sinks, each with 3 faucets, lined the left wall and 4 stalls were further past. A run of 8 un-spaced wall mounted Florida urinals with no dividers lined the right wall. Immediately to the vestibule’s left, the Stonehenge-like locker area opened to the square shaped communal shower. In the locker area there were vertical freestanding 16 inch Prussian-blue metal athletic lockers that were 14 inches deep by 5 feet high and had 3 internal wall hooks and 1 double ceiling hook. 48 inch butcher block wooden benches that were supported on double pedestal-bases ran parallel to the lockers and sat 16 inches off ground. Wall mounted horizontal towel bars lined the walls that led into the open style group shower which had 4 3-headed steel shower poles that are evenly spaced in a 4-dice pattern.

In here, all the male students had randomly assigned lockers which were spaced about because there were more lockers than boys. The four of us had been given lockers positioned near each of the four corners. Mine was in the upper right which allowed me partial view of the locker area and a full panoramic gaze into the group shower which I secretly enjoyed and had seen least 2 partial-stiffs in. Beyond my meatgazer’s view though, there’s little else that I found appealing about the place. It was always humid and hot feeling even for me. The other kids dripped water all over the floor that just pooled on the tile, and sticky condensated steam rose off everyone’s body. It was disgusting. I much rather preferred the Team locker room that was all the way over in the Services Building and was attached to the workout gym adjacent to the lobby atrium. This locker room was only supposed to be only for X-men and non-active staff and there were several authoritarian looking signs that said ‘No Student Entry’ and ‘18+ Only’ in 2 languages. The codes we had in our X-badges that worked in the student gymnasium also opened the doors to this area and none of the other X-men ever said anything about us being in there. It was a lot nicer and was illuminated under blue lighting and the floors and walls were heated and carpeted. The shower system was hybrid with some type of alien technology that responded to your thoughts and there was a large built-in multi bench cedar lined wet sauna attached. There were free extra-fluffy big ivory-white towels and the lockers talked to you and addressed you by name. We all liked to use these facilities and would usually strip back into street clothes or uniforms and walk from the student locker room via the underground passage and come up inside the Team one, but on two occasions I’ve gotten stuck having to use the had to use the kids facilities and I was nearly traumatized. Steam billowed out of the open shower and no sooner had I dried off my body parts then they were sweating and glistening in a gross mix of steam and perspiration and I had to dry myself again until I sweated more. This went on and on in an unholy cycle. 

Fortunately however, there was a singular bright spot to the last time I had to shower and dress in that sweatbox. Warren had had to use it too. Ordinarily he and I never had post gym time together outside of team drills. During this particular day, the water in the big boy showers had been turned off; all the adults on team were gone. Apparently it had something to do ‘routine maintenance,’ which I called shenanigans on. I don’t remember why, but we couldn’t go straight back to the dorm at this time either. I’d already showered and was sitting on the edge of the bench closest to my locker. I was wearing khaki below the knee shorts that had an elastic waistband with adjustable drawstrings and slanted side pockets and had on a classic-fit electric-blue tee shirt with the Chilly Willy penguin on the front. Warren was still dressed in his athletic clothes and straddled the opposite end and faced me; his mighty legs spread wide open to either side. His wings were swept tightly aft and were being held partially aloft off of his back. My teenage boy’s degenerate mind imagined illuminated runway light leading directly into his bulbous crotch.

He had been wearing the same admiral-blue and lipstick-red trainers all 5 of us had been given but he’d already untied and remove them and they’d been set behind him on the bench. He’d just stretched his feet up and pulled off his white crew-cut ankle length socks. For such a tall guys, his feet were surprisingly small. He only wore 9 1/2’s and I think that his body stopped them from growing bigger so he’d have less air drag. After he picked at his big toenail, he returned his feet bare to the warm and damp tile. His legs stayed in the wide spread position and his air-meshed poly-blend athletic shorts constricted and bunched up noticeably around his crotch. The shorts were royal-blue with schoolbus-yellow contrast stripes running down the sides; the gathered elastic waistband matched the stripes and had looped white drawstrings. They were indecently short and if he’d not been wearing some sort of supportive underwear, his parts would have flopped out; as it was, his bulge was already straining heavily. I couldn’t help myself from glancing furtively his highlighted and tempting synth-fabric wrapped knob so I pretended to check my phone.

Without moving his head, he looked around the locker room and his big cobalt-blue eyes darted everywhere as if they were scanning for predators; no one noticed but me. “No foxes in here Birdbrian,” I said, “Raccoons may be a possibility though Wings.” He gave me a dirty look and his pineapple-yellow eyebrows furrowed, but his eyes stopped their jarring movement. He stood up, lifting his big round ass off the bench with his knees. I watched his middle finger touch his navel and then travel down his lower stomach and I bit my lip. It stopped low on his pelvis and his thumb pushed back his form fitting shirt. It was a canary-yellow classic-cut double-stitched tank with 2 inch shoulder straps and contrasting red and white piping that ran around the scoop of the neck arm openings. As he thumbed the bottom hem back from his waistband, a few shimmering blonde hairs peeked out newly visible. He fidgeted with his short’s looped drawstring and with his long finger finessed it free. They gently loosening around his concrete waist. Both hands moved to the sides of his midsection and as his thumbs slid under the gathered yellow band he pulled and the shorts fell past his knees and down. He stepped out of them and his overstuffed pouch appeared.

With his chest towards me he reached across with his right arm, pointing his elbow at me, and he grabbed the back of his shirt between left and right wing from over his shoulder. He tugged and the little snaps that held the tank in place popped in rapid-fire succession and it peeled off his body leaving him standing next to naked and looking utterly angelic. His torso was rotated in my direction and I could see both of his firm half-barrel shaped pecs beneath his wide powerful shoulders. They curved across his hairless chest like duel mounds of pink marble embellished with pert cinnamon-colored nipples. The moisture laden warm air that was wafting out from the shower had made his rippling abs damp and a little bit of condensation ran down them as they glistened. His beautiful blonde hair looked cute in a tussled ‘let’s go back to bed looking’ kind of way. It was uncombed and out of place but not messy I thought about how it would feel running through my fingers.

The only garment he was wearing was a pair of red-crotched low-rise hip hugging 3 inch side-seamed contour pouch briefs with no fly. They had a 1¾ inch white clothed waistband that hung low and showed off his V belt. Short and thick white-gold curls danced out beyond this margin and swirled upwards connecting to the barely visible trail that grew to his navel. The underwear strained to contain all of him and I pretended not to notice. His stuff looked like it had been wrapped for Christmas and was about to go on parade with Santa down 5th Avenue.

The little boy inside of me seethed with envy as I tucked my own painfully average and mostly erect penis under the elastic of band of my half-length midrise triple button flied boxer briefs. A single button would have done the job but the cashier who’d sold them to me had been hot and I’d gone back and grabbed the 3 button pack hoping he’d notice and assume I needed the extra hold; he hadn’t. Back in the locker room, my tip peeked out a little past the band but stayed hidden under my shirt. The gay man inside of me sizzled with lusty admiration for my friends’ manly attributes. My hand lingered on the underwear band that was keeping my boner from tenting my shorts and my thumb rubbed the sensitive tip-skin under my slit where my frenulum had once been. I felt a drop of slippery pre cum and my thoughts slipped to fantasy.

* * *

It was the Winter Olympic at medal awarding. ‘The Sex That I Need’ played over the loudspeaker. I was standing on a dais wearing a Maya-blue British Empire style colonial helmet and nothing else except a tiny pair of trunks that matched the color of my hat. Warren was on the center podium sporting a large Gold Medal that hung around his neck by a rainbow colored ribbon and rested at the center of his chest between his nipples. Naturally he was shirtless and he was also shiny and appeared to have been oiled. His wings had glitter on them. Scott was there too, for some reason, and in uniform. He looked at me disapprovingly:

...

Apparently Scott was officiating the ceremony but he spoke with Xavier’s voice:

_“And the Gold Medal for teenaged-sexual-development - male category, goes to…_

Xavier-Scott said:

_“Mr. Warren Worthington III” – “Warren is 17 and a natural blond who wears 29 inch waist jeans!”_

_“He enjoys letting his friends eat off his naked chest!”_

**_“He likes it cold!”_ **

The loudspeaker said.

Cheers, as sparkling confetti the same color as Warren’s hair shot off:

…

Xavier-Scott spoke again:

_“It looks like there’s a tie.” … “Will the executive committee make a ruling?”_

Xavier-Scott asked.

I gave a thumbs up and the crowd cheered again; more confetti fired.

Two more Warrens then came up onto the podium and stood on either side of with the first and the also ad Gold Medals:

...

Xavier Scott spoke:

_“And the Gold Medal for genital-growth-and-development - male category -_

_American rules, goes to”…_

He said:

_“Mr. Warren Worthington III” – “Warren is also 17 and a natural blond… down there!”_

_“He enjoys letting his friends rub and feel the tiny barely-there hairs on his legs and butt!”_

**“He also enjoys it cold!”**

The loudspeaker said; more confetti fired:

_“I’m confused, I thought this was the Olympic Games, not a beauty pageant?”_

A Me that was seated behind me on the dais .

He was dressed like Travolta from ‘Saturday Night Fever’ said:

_“Same thing!”_

Another Me with large mustache and sideburns that were similar mine in gay heaven.

He was wearing a Stetson and looked kind of like Norm Macdonald as Burt Reynolds but also still like me said.

…

Xavier-Scott spoke more:

_“And the Gold Medal for all-around-manly-goodness - triple freestyle -_

_Continental rules, goes to”…_

He said:

_“Mr. Warren Worthington III” – “Warren is still 17 and his balls are large and mostly hairless!”_

_“In his spare time he likes to try on underwear that’s too small! “He enjoys swinging his big dick around like he’s and elephant_

_while wearing short open legged underwear!” “_

' **He _really_ likes it cold!”**

The loudspeaker said; more confetti fired:

...

First-Warren and New-Warren on his left had started feeling one another’s pecs

and praising themselves on how firm they were.

Then there was a fourth Warren who was led by Scott by the hand appeared. Apparently he was Special Olympic-Warren.

_“WTF!”_

I-Me said:

_“He can’t dress himself.” … “It’s the wings.”_

Travolta-Me said:

_“That’s a horrible thing to think!”_

Burt-Me said:

“Shut up! I’m missing it!” … “We might see their dicks!”

I-Me said:

...

Xavier Scott explained that Special Olympic-Warren had taken the Gold for no reason at all;

he was just hot and apparently he liked sex with boys 2 years younger than him:

“ _Mr. Warren Worthington III” – “Warren is 17 as well and he’s just so damn hot!”_

_“In his spare time he likes to lounge at home half naked for the sole for the sexual gratification of his close friend and roommate!”_

_“He enjoys letting his friends play with his hard Ween like it’s a joystick!”_

**“He _really really_ likes it cold!”**

The loudspeaker said; more confetti fired.

…

First-Warren and New-Warren on the left had started making out and pulling on each other’s nipples and Old-Me was there and he was videotaping them. New-Warren on the right was pulling on First-Warren’s feathers as New-Warren on the left started to go down on First-Warren.

…

Me-from ‘Saturday Night Fever’ and Me-from ‘Smokey and the Bandit’ were with Old-Me and they were all conversing politely about the videotaping, and Special-Olympic Warren was pulling on his own feathers as New-Warren on the right started to knee down behind first Warren.

…

_“Make it cold for me!” … “Make it cold for me!”_

All the Warrens said in unison:

Old-Me had another frighteningly huge boner up in his shorts was looking at me this time as he started to rub it,

then he iced up and the fantasy took a disturbingly obscene and unspeakably perverted turn…

* * *

Meanwhile, Warren in the real world was saying:

“Bobby!” … “Bobby!” … “Are you listening to me?”

I came back, a little light headed and with a wet area on the waist of my boxer briefs below where my tip was pointing out. He was bent over rooting through his caramel-brown leather gym duffle. I said, “Yes! I heard you!” but I’d really missed everything said since he took off his shorts. He’d already stuffed them down into it and was just finishing shoving his socks and shoes inside. Turned away from me, I observed how he was keeping his wingspan tightly confined and unnaturally raised while he was stooped, they were however, still full enough to block the light and cast him under a lit shadow. The casual viewer would have assumed the he was holding them like that to be mindful of them getting into other people’s space, and in part that was the case. I knew though, that he was mostly doing it to keep other people from their space because he hated having them petted or stoked by strangers. Feathers unmolested, he stood back upright and his underwear bunched up in his butt crack and he reached back to pull them out in an undignified manner. His ass looked like two plump Hawaiian rolls packed tight together under stretchy red cotton.

Partially bending down once more, he brought the duffel up to sit on the wooden bench. It looked far too expensive to be used as a gym bag and I wondered how he’d kept it dry on the floor. It had a large central pocket plus two outer ones on either side, and there was one single expandable pocket attached to the front. All the pockets where closed by copper colored zippers with matching pulls. He clenched his ass cheeks together for a second then slightly turned he adjusted himself a bit in the front. His briefs looked overstuffed and I imagined the seam holding down his dick rupturing and his genitals bursting free as the fire-engine pouch burst like German river dams.

Cock still secure, he unzipped the duffel's side pockets and pulled out fresh clothing. This afternoon’s underwear would be a pair of azure-blue double-seamed contour pouched trunks with a Y-front fly that was piped in white; they had an extra-wide 2 inch waistband that matched. Street wear would be above the knee French terry shorts in Caribbean-blue which would show off his calfs, and a Navy-blue sleeveless stretch-cotton crewneck muscle shirt with flatlock stitching that would show off his arms. He also pulled out a single ivory-white towel which I recognized as one of the free fluffy ones from the Team locker; I’d suggested we steal several of them. Since he didn’t sweat he didn’t actually need to shower in order to carry on with the day’s activities free of body odor. Typically would take one anyway just for enjoyment but I knew that there was no way he’d be showering down there.

Stoically he sat back down and positioned himself legs open, again straddling the bench. He laid the fluffy ivory towel out across his lap protecting his modesty and his grand prize. He leisurely pulled off his underwear from beneath it and slipped them down his legs as my dick-heat seeking radar went off. I pretended to tie my shoes as he lifted his legs up to wriggle the briefs all the way off and I glanced up. Shadowed below the towel, I could plainly see his soft penis with its pointed egg-shaped head and the furrowed and wrinkled little skin folds where his foreskin used to be that surely stretched long and tight when he was hard. I sighted his full yellow grove of pubic hair; still the same striking tone as his pineapple-shaded eyebrows and that beautiful head of hair. His cock, though short and soft, was by no means little however in its currently diminutive state it appeared relatively minor compared to the big matching set of balls that hung below it and spread out on the wooded bench between his baronial upper legs inside their lose smooth bag.

He stood up, wrapping the towel the rest of the way around himself and clenched it along his side. His meaty cock and male-eggs disappeared from my view behind the terrycloth curtain. I took this moment to adjust the now raging erection still tucked behind my underwear band. The band was now soaked with my own fluids. As I felt the pre cum at my waist, I spied as he stooped and slid the azure trunks with the extra-wide white waistband over his little feet. He pulled them to his knees, and then all the way up around his goods as he let the fluffy towel drop. There was a split second delay between the towels fall and complete underwear coverage and his base and pubes had been fully visible. I’d almost squirted in my pants. His pubic hairs had been well illuminated and they were even blonder than I’d thought and I imaged my nose buried deep among them. More important though, I’d seen that the root of his cock was far thicker than I had realized. It’d been revealed trunk-like and sturdy. Out of nowhere a dead serious and ponderous cogitation popped into my mind; a straight forward occurrence that sounded like it based on an assured and pre-determined occurrence:

“I should practice so I can get the base all the way down too when he lets me blow him.”

* * *

Forward to 10 minutes later:

I went into one of the restrooms that were down the hall from the gymnasium. They were all single occupancy so I was assured of no interruptions. Locking the door behind me, I slung my backpack off and dropped where I stood. My teenage body, always on alert for possible sexual stimulation, had already started to rev up and the launch sequence has been initiation. I could feel my cock jumping to life and pressing against the pliable fabric that was holding it down in my pants. The pouch of my boxer briefs swelled and expanded to accommodate its newly solid occupant. I was so horny in that moment of anticipation, as my right hand fumbled with my top button and my left hand aggressively pawed at my crotch, I almost prematurely ejaculated.

Crotch opened, I pulled my underwear band down and tucked it behind my balls. I started to masturbate slowly, running my dick backwards and forwards in my hand. I thought about my friend’s nakedness that I’d just witnessed and moment’s lustful rapture got the best of me and I knew what I wanted. I iced my right hand and with my middle finger I parted my cheeks and circled the rim of my asshole counterclockwise. I teased myself slowly and reversed the rotation. The skin around my hole was warm and hairless and my own frozen finger left a little circular ring of icy melt water like a target around my virgin orifice. My sickened fingertip began to gently push on my puckered up butt button like I was pressing my own backdoor bell. My penis palpitated and felt heavy in my hand like it was fully loaded and cocked; only needing the slightest increase in stimulation to fire off.

I inserted and submerged my frozen middle finger past my anal lips and slowly diddled myself. The brand new sensation was epoch. I drilled further, deeper, and harder and then insinuated my index finger as well into my already overstuffed boy-chute. I stretched and molested my hole until it was no longer tight put protracted, loose and violated. It felt so good and I imagined that the foreign digits belligerently cleaving me open were Warren’s. I envisioned his warm and flushed hand pressing into the spongy flesh of my ass while his attenuated white fingers probed me, poking and monkeying with my boy-hole; his walnut shaped knuckles popping in and out of me. I wanted him to make me nut and I plunged my fingers in and out, back and forth, slowly getting fasting and deeper as I primed my own pump.

"Warren!...” I gasped, the dangerous words escaped my lips and fluttered out onto the wind.

I moved my ass and pelvis back and forth impaling myself of my drilling fingers. My left hand squeezed and fondled my virile tightened young balls, rolling and tumbling them together inside my scrote like dice. The pressure building in my plumbing was being ratcheted up by my eager fingers and I tapped my teen prostate like I was messaging an SOS out on an antique Marconi. My left hand gripped my shaft and pumped as my already primed pipe boiled over in a cum geyser that sent columns of steaming semen shooting up my length before spraying out through the pursed lips of my urethral venthole in 3 fountained discharges. Knees week, I let go of my bruised cock and pulled my melty fingers out. I was hungry and needed a nap. My butthole felt used. I pondered what it would feel like to bottom for a special person.


	3. The Smell of his Boxers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Bobby has an intimate request from Little Warren and he stiffs Warren's boxers. 
> 
> Young All New Bobby continues to explore his thoughts and ever growing feeling for his roommate and good friend Warren. He describes elements of his stay in his future via his inner monologue as he describes a morning's encounter with Angel. His sexual attraction to Warren is now fully formed and he's embracing it with raging hormones. He's still emotionally confused about how he feels though. He masturbates with Warren's underwear and has an ice orgasm. He also has a dream and fantasy which again involve his older self and he's clearly repressing something. 
> 
> It's still all a jumble of hormones and emotions and time displacement stress being a teenage X-man. Bobby is 15, Warren is 17.
> 
> This takes place not long after Uncanny #600

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <[](https://ibb.co/NxCFD56)" />  
> 

* * *

Robert "Bobby" Drake - 15

No words were ever spoken about the jizz-odor incident, SemenGate, and we both pretended like it had never happened. 2 days later, an hour after I’d just finished jerking off, I thought I could still smell cum and I got paranoid and thought that maybe there was something wrong with my jizz. I googled it and I spent the rest of the afternoon afraid that I had testicular cancer. Later in the evening, I discovered a crusty pair of underwear hidden under a medium pizza box that must have been cummed on at least 4 times. Disgusted, and revolted by my own masturbatory laziness, I put them into the empty pizza box and made it an undertaking to clean up my side of the room. Two days later ‘stuff went down,” and we were all pulled away on mission and we didn’t come back for a while and when we finally did, we were exhausted. The next few days were routine around campus and in our room. Warren got up early and I stayed in bed later; this had been the definition of routine since we moved in together. I started opening a window when I jerked off, and became more cognizant about where and how I dropped my loads. Warren continued to do household activities in just his underwear and his dick continued to swinging like a pendulum.

Two days ago, which was a Thursday, I’d woken up earlier than normal, not sleepy, and I’d sat up and leaned back in bed contemplating how we got here and what would happen when we went back. I’d not noticed that Warren had never gotten up. I didn’t notice, in fact, until I was supposed to be up and by then he’d been sleeping for over an hour and a half. I yelled his name a few times, even calling him Angel, and got no response. Finally I chucked a very cold and extra powdery snowball at him which connected and exploded like a little Death Star and rained a small apocalypse of snow all over him. He lurched and almost flew out of the bed startled. When he realized what had happened he glared at me with murder eyes but before he could start cursing at me I said, “You overslept!” “You’re going to be late and you wouldn’t get up!” then I added “You look like a frightened seagull!” which he didn’t hear. His wings, which had flared up and bent aloft in alarm came down and refolded behind him and he sat back against them. He yawned and raised his arms up to stretch and I could see that gorgeous pineapple-blonde hair beneath his arms. His feathers ruffled and he twisted his body in place as he stretched his torso. The white over-sized flat waistband of his boxers creeped out from under his cream-colored top sheets. With a single pull he yanked the covers off and they billowed into the air like sails before crumpling down in an elongated pile near the foot of his bed. He climbed out of bed of his left side, stretching his right leg over in a long and graceful stride. His wings rose behind him automatically and he pulled his rear end up from the bed and they descended to their full and normal morning positions as he marched around his bed and his morning wood bounced between his big thighs. Just as he did every morning, he was a creature of habit, opened his wardrobe and picked out a fresh set of boxer shorts. All of his underwear were kept organized and always folded neatly away in his middle wardrobe drawer. He’d been sleeping in a pair of French-pink dupplin checkered classic-fit single button fly boxer shorts. The new pair he’d pulled were solid cerulean-blue, cut in modern fit and short with gold hemmed leg seams and side vents, and had a black grosgrain waistband. As he checked his phone he must have noticed the time because he let out an ‘oh shit! With no hesitation, he dropped the boxers he was wearing and kicked them away. He stepped into the new ones and slid them up his legs and over his ass. He dropped his parts in at the front and let the waistband pull back naturally and it popped as it smacked his pelvis and some of his pubic hair stuck out above the band. He pulled on a pair of straight style short-rise tight wasted dark jeans. He made a little hop as he pulled them up over his butt and the cerulean fabric of his boxer bunched up in a cottony balloon around his waist and his hands circled himself stuffing it in. and Once his underwear was settled in beneath the jeans he fished a black leather belt through the loops.

“Help me,” he demanded, the fly of his jeans and his belt hung wide open. He pulled a garment off a cedar hanger and held it up. It was a stone-grey button-fronted knit cardigan with shawl collar and long sleeves with rolled cuffs. It, like all his tops, had been custom tailored at back to have odd shaped holes and sleeves with little buttons and zippers to fit and close up around his wings. Warren never admitted that he needed extra time to get into and out of shirts and jackets. I knew by the very nature of his demand that he was in a small panic. Whatever he was going to miss must have been really important.

For a second I started to wonder why I didn’t know about it, and then I started to theorize that maybe something was going on that I hadn’t been told.

I thought that maybe I needed to call Hank and ask him what was going on, then I thought that if he wouldn’t tell me I was going to have to call Scott and demand to know. Then if he wouldn’t tell me I’d have to go find Jean, because she had to know whatever it was I was being left out of, and of course Kitty Pryde must know, and who knows who she told. Everyone but me probably knew! Then my whole world started to implode from within my head as I realized that I was probably the victim of some conspiracy to keep me in the dark about whatever it was that was going on. I had to know, and I started to feel the cold burning inside of me… building…

“Bobby!!” Warren yelled, “What the hell?! …” and I came back to reality.

Warren needed my help. With an urgency usually reserved for a fight, I sprung out of bed and was at his side in an instant. We were both in lock-step and I knew, without thinking, what was going through his head and what he needed me to do:

I stepped behind him.

His wings parted and pulled up some off his back and they raised a tiny bit into a position that was as out-of-the-way as possible.

His left hand reached over his shoulder and I took the end of the sweater that he was holding.

I pulled it back and down along his shoulder blade and left of the starboard wing.

I could see his reflection in the small mirror that hung on the inside of his wardrobe door.

I could tell by his look that he was consciously reducing the pressure of his blood flow into both wings.

Gradually they started to downsize and reduce.

The musculature that ran the length of his wing and grew from the enormous and over-sized trapezius muscles on his back were filled with a sponge like tissue. This tissue was fed by, and networked with, web-like apparatuses of tiny blood vessels. These ordinarily remained blood-filled and under constant pressure at all times. This kept his wing musculature firm, turgid and enlarged, and engorged. Two small glans ran buried under his splenius capsule muscles which produced an enzyme that caused a physiological phenomenon where the blood pressure in the little vessels turned off. The sponge like musculature squeezed itself empty, and his wigs became curtain like and small, their flesh suspended from his bones. He was able to make this happen with deep concentration and under force of will but at great discomfort. This was how he got them strapped them down and around him when he wanted them hidden. I’d seen him do it many times before, but I’d never been this up close and personal to it and it was unsettling to watch. They shrank in on themselves and the thin skin under his feathers shriveled partially and pulled wrinkled.

My hands worked robotically as though I’d done the movements on myself. My right hand raised to meet his as another end of the sweater was raised over his shoulder and I pulled it back and down along his other shoulder blade and right of the port wing just like on the other side. I then stretched it to join with the end in my left hand. My hands and fingers moving automatically, they jigsaw pieced, buttoned, and zipped the material together into a garment and the cardigan that was now nicely relaxed on his back looked like it had come off the rack without alteration at all. Left and right wing poked out though little formfitting embroidered sleeves. Warren’s hands were already through the arm sleeves and he raised his arms and my hands moved under his armpits to secure some additional alterations. They then did two small zippers and single button along each of the vertical hems that ran down the garments sides and then tucked them behind the tight stitching that kept them out of view. I stepped back as his wing began re-swelling and returning to normal size. They expanded upward over his head and outward by a few feet. They gave a little flap and then obediently fell back neatly into place behind him. He lifted his arms above his head and my hands adjusted the shoulders. He pulled the cardigan down at the front and adjusted himself within it, then he buttoned up the front himself. He would be going bare chested under it and the smooth center of his chest and well developed pecs were on display. He reached down and crammed his parts into his jeans, zipped up, and buckled. Then he snatched a stainless steel midsized chronograph wristwatch with tawny-brown leather band from his watch case inside the wardrobe. He fastened it to his left wrist as he simultaneously pulled on a pair of socks then bent over and laced up a charcoal-gray pair of classic Adidas’ Gazelles with white laces and stripes. Phone, wallet, and keys deposited in his pockets, he reached for his backpack and was out the door without as much as a goodbye, leaving few errant down feathers in his wake. 

I stood there for a moment thunderstruck. I’d gone into ‘team-mode meld’ and everything had been a muscle reflex. This particular type of intense-stress driven teamwork had been taught, conditioned, and programmed telepathically into all 5 us by the Professor. On the surface this conditioning allowed us to shift into a kind of adrenalized tunnel vision where we noticed each nonverbal and even physiological que from one another and could react accordingly. On a deeper and basically subconscious level, a tiny psychic switch flipped and in these moments we were partially synced and could understand, interpret, and even anticipate each other’s actions and needs. We could even move with unspoken coordination. That’s what had just happened with Warren, but neither of us had been in danger or under the appropriate stress triggers. This capability wasn’t supposed to trigger by accident. We’d even been hardwired a bit not to even think about it and I was a little shaken. The panic that I’d registered in his voice must have tripped my reflex and this shouldn’t have happened. I also shouldn’t have been recalling the episode in such detail.A jumbled wave of confused ideas and mixed feelings peppered my mind like automatic gunfire. In the undercurrent, ran an unspoken list of feelings and emotions could potentially bring this conditioning out and other things out. Strong and primal and frightening feelings and emotions. The type that would make you take a bullet for someone or jump between a loved one and a speeding car unselfishly and without second thought. The kind that could also make people like us, mutants, access deep and hidden away aspects and levels of our powers. The kind that could let us do terrifying things. This scared me, and I thought about the kinds of godlike capabilities Old-Me had hinted at being too afraid to try. My thoughts came back to me as I pushed the welled up panic back down. Why had I had this episode at all? What was it that involved Warren that had triggered me in this way? He’d needed my help, but there shouldn’t have been anything special about that. He’d never given me such a personal and close request before though. His dressing handicap was a taboo subject and the idea that he’d wanted my help with it was incredibly intimate. He wouldn’t have asked anyone else.

Mid-realization, I was interrupted as the door swung open and Warren leaned in. His left hand grabbed onto the upper part of the door while his right wing partially protruded into the room. Still visibly in a hurry, his serious look on was his face and he looked me in the face with his cobalt-blue eyes and said, “Bobby. Didn’t mean to dip that that without saying thanks. Sorry.” Then he knowingly added “this is a thing about this me, the ‘Old Me,’ ad what happened to him. It’s not a team thing so don’t think you’re being left out of anything, Ok.” and he smiled at me and turned back and the door swung shut behind him.Those cobalt bird eyes and that smile had slayed me and coupled with the past moment’s events and the adrenaline high I was suddenly coming down from, and the residual psychic kickback, I was a wreck and I crawled into bed, mentally observing that this day was going to be a wash, and I drifted off to sleep.

* * *

I dreamt that my sperm was especially potent.

There was an impending cloud of me-scented semen-odor that was threatening to engulf the city.

I had to go from person to person and explain that it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with me because I didn’t masturbate, ever.

...

I had to sign an official document saying I had never and never would masturbate.

Both Hanks gave me a monitor I needed to wear on my right wrist at all times that would go off if I did masturbate.

...

Then I feel down an ass shaped hole.

I was frozen to a torture wrack that was actually the sofa we’d had in the basement when I was little.

...

The Price is Right was on in the background and I knew the price but I couldn’t say it.

My mom was spinning the wheel ad it was filled with my cum.

...

Kitty Pryde phased out of the wall and she had a dick made of ice.

Old-Me was there and he was telling me that I was going to really like it.

...

Kitty Pryde was telling me to hold the position.

I was saying no, but Rod Roddy say saying “Bobby Drake, come on down!”

...

Old-Me was holding the video camcorder up and he was starting to rub his frighteningly huge boner though his shorts.

He started to ice up, and the nightmare took a disturbingly obscene and unspeakably perverted turn…

* * *

I woke up covered in frost with an iced over boner. I got out of bed and peeled my frozen boxer briefs off and I deiced my dick. Standing there, post-nap horny with my ice-cold ice-hard teenage erection in my hand, my eyes caught the checkered pair of boxer shorts that Warren had discarded in his hurry to get dressed and something in my mind went ‘kaching!’ He’d been wearing them since last night and they were freshly slept in. An all too familiar feeling shot from my prostate to the tip of my dick as I imagined holding them up to my nose.

Some blood must have still been in my might head, as the core of my dick was probably still part frozen. Embarrassed at my lack of moral fiber, I jumped back into bed and buried my head under my pillow. I had however, ignored the fact that my penis was raging hard and my landing on the mattress, front side down, had felt really really good. In a single split second, my little head had executed a coup and was now in charge. I peered out from under the pillow to glance at the pink boxer shorts on the floor. They were calling to me in siren song from the other side of the room to be sniffed. My penis was their accomplice. In an instant I was out of bed, locking the door, and scooping the magic underwear up before I could even think. I held them in my hands and marveled at how light and supremely soft they were.

All of my underwear came in plastic multi-packs; the sight of which, I imagined, would probably cause Warren to give the pained ‘I’m so utterly-horrified-and-disgusted-right-now-but-I’m-too-well-bread-to-say-anything’ facial reaction that he makes when presented with anything novel that he finds wholly plebeian and common. I fondled them in my hands, enjoying the cottony feel and sensation on my fingertips. I wondered if this was how they felt against Warren’s skin; against his butt, against the head of his cock, against his balls. The familiar image his cotton-covered crotch with his circumcised rim making an ever so gentle but terribly obvious half-circle outline danced before my eyes. I held the boxer shorts to my face and moved my nose along the length of the inseam and over the buttoned up fly. My stiff cock was strained and I pulled at it as I imagined his big dick swinging to and fro in them. 

I sealed the door with a thin plug of ice running its length as insurance against interruption and carried the plunder to my side of the room. I laid back in my bed with them balled up and pressed to my nose as I inhaled. These beautiful pink and white boxer shorts, with their little overlapping front panels held back my friend’s manhood all day with only a tiny button. I could sense and feel the lingering imperceptible warmth left from the heat of his crotch with my powers. The worn underwear burned with it and I pictured that heat radiating out from Warrens smoldering parts. With my eyes closed, I imagined running my nose up his leg and sliding it between his inner thigh and his ball sack, then up through his forest of golden pubes. I saw myself licking and biting at his curly sun-colored pubic hairs as my hand introduced the boxer shorts into my mouth. I sucked on the used cotton fabric and I became lost in the sniffing of his enchanted underwear. I slowly rubbed and pulled my cock while exploring the intimate scent that had been exuded by my close friend and roommate. Steady little driplets of pre cum leaked from my cock tip.

Warren didn’t sweat and to my knowledge he didn’t even have sweat glands. His wings kept and diffused most of his body heat and any excess from exertion was breathed out through his bird lungs. He did have a body smell though. It wasn’t the scent of his cologne, which was frequently overpowering. It was natural male-body type of smell that was way different from mine, or Hank’s or Scotts. It smelled good; fresh, powdery, like his feathers did and his boyparts clearly gave it off strong. It was driving me wild. I fantasized about his balls dropping onto my face and my nose being totally covered by his scrote as I inhaled the scent. The boxers had gotten damp with my breath and saliva and I was getting myself so worked up that they had frosted in my hand. The aroma of the guy’s personal areas, a guy I practically considered an older brother, had made me feel drunk and I envisioned sniffing his armpits too. 

This was so deviant the thought of just how perverted it was made me hornier. I was so horny and this felt both so good and so dirty at the same time that I got lost in it and went into my head. 

* * *

For a second I almost thought about how shamefaced I’d be if Old-Me knew what I was doing.

Then I imagined he and I sniffing the boxers together.

Then, as I continued to rub on my dick,

I started to imagine myself and Old Me tugging on our dicks through our shorts while we sniffed the boxers.

Then I imagined Old-Me unzipping his fly.

That got me so worked up that I almost started to cum,

and a little even leaked out.

I put the brakes and came back up to reality for air.

* * *

As I pulled the chilled boxers off my face, I experienced a moment of clarity and I realized that part of me was getting off on this on some other new level. I felt connected with Warren in a sexually intimate way that I’d never felt before. This was so private and personal. My thoughts and memories drifted to the few times when I’d touched his wings. Not the casual or accidental touches that’d happened during training or fights, I was thinking about the little personal type touches. The times he’d ask me to check his long feathers to make sure they weren’t out of place when he couldn’t see them and the time he’d asked me to pluck some irritating blood feathers that he couldn’t reach and how after he’d made me promise never to tell anyone or mention it. I whiffed the frosty underwear and my cock got even harder; glacier hard, I closed my eyes again and stroked it long. I envisioned Warren’s dick in my mouth and I imagined licking his balls and his asshole as I mouthed the cotton fabric that had touched him so intimately. Leaving the boxers in my mouth, I directed my attention to what by now, desperately needed to be done. I jerked myself hard with my right hand, circling my head with my thumb. I cupped my balls with my left; squeezing them and working them around in my sack. My dick was engorged and straining and it was turning bluish-pink. I gripping the shaft just under my head where it was most sensitive and pulled hard. My heart pounded and my vision started to blur. A slight moan emanated from my underwear-stuffed mouth. I was going to cum soon. My balls throbbed from within and tightened up. A tingling feeling started in the region where the helmet met the shaft and it increased with every pull. A sensation of cold fire rose from my balls and up through my cock and cum exploded out in a huge freezing cold semen geyser that fell down onto my abs and back onto my dick. It ran off into my pubes and flowed under my ass. My cum filled my bellybutton overflowed cum spilled onto my bed sheets. I drowned and died in world of ecstasy, agony, relaxation, pleasure and torment. My body convulsed and ribbons of liquid ice sliced through my flesh. Ice crystallized in patches all across my skin and frost spread across my linens and bed frame. I lay departed, frozen and crystalline, mostly blue until I heaved and a torrent of warm air surged into my lungs over inflating them. Reborn, I shot up and exhaled heavily with a backbreaking puff. My head swooned and the ceiling spun. The smell of fresh icy cum filled the room and, still humiliated by the SemenGate episode, I focused and pulled all of the stagnant air and moisture into a frosty mist. That locking up any odor molecules then I solidified the whole thing into a big ice block in the shower, and I dozed back off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <[](https://ibb.co/jb436yB)" />
> 
> Original sketch


End file.
